"Good, cause I deleted the one you sent me. Just as well, since we had an internal audit including full phone scan today. Bastards."
Suzanne took a sip of air, realised she had finished her coffee, and put the cup down.
"Have you changed your mind, Petra? Before, you didn't want to help Josh with the search, and now you do, is that right?"
"Kind of. This monitoring shit doesn't add up."
"I don't really follow what you've been saying."
"That's just shooting the breeze about the security design and how to slip past it. You asked who's observing, and I said official authorities, but I really mean Five, or someone like them."
"Five?"
"MI5, sweetheart. The big boys, and the reason that doesn't add up is that if they were looking for young Richard, they'd have found him by now." Petra's cheekbones appeared to sharpen as her mouth tensed. "In whatever condition."
Oh, God.
"They've got a monitor on anything to do with Broomhall," said Josh. "He's flagged as need-to-watch. It's got all the signs, hasn't it?"
"Looks that way. Either he's been a naughty boy or he's crossed people in the corridors of power."
Suzanne did not see how this prevented people doing everything they could to search for one missing boy. Or perhaps she did. People saw intricate fictions all around them in the workplace, exactly as real and exactly as imaginary as the airborne chemicals in an ant nest that drove the behaviour of every member, including the socalled queen, who was a captive breeder more than a ruler, every ant existing in its place, carrying out its role in the emergent behaviour of the nest-as-a-whole.
"What are you thinking?" asked Josh.
"About ant nests, and the way people behave."
"Whoo." Petra raised her glass towards Josh. "She's too deep for you, mate."
"We're just… Never mind."
"So, you two are OK getting back by yourselves?"
"Sure."
"Then I'll see you."
Petra stood, tugging down her I FIGHT LIKE A GIRL sweatshirt, outlining her breasts. Perhaps it was a distraction for the men in the bar, because the memory flake was gone from the tabletop, though Suzanne had not seen Petra pocket it. Then Petra turned, revealing the back of her sweatshirt – another friendly message: CASTRATION? IT'S JUST LIKE SHELLING PEAS – and left.
"That was abrupt," said Suzanne.
"Just her way."
"But she's going to help."
"Because she likes my hack. First, it's elegant. Second, it exploits a ShieldIx feature she didn't know about. Hardly anyone knows."
"Really." Suzanne put her fingertips on the back of his hand, felt an electric fizz, and withdrew. "That's not why she's helping you. The word, I think, is smitten."
"Jesus, not you as well." Josh stared at the exit Petra had left by. "She happens to be gay, you know."
"Actually, I got that. I stand by smitten."
"Oh, please. Isn't there anyone who can rescue me?"
Suzanne tried not to think too much about the meaning of her response, knowing she could shut up, but saying it anyway.
"Maybe there is."
[ TWELVE ]
Trafalgar Square, early. Quite why he had walked here, Richard did not know. The atmosphere around the fountains was odd, just a few homeless people – people like me – sleeping on the benches, roused and rousted by cleaning staff. Commuters were waiting at the bus stops and streaming toward their offices; down here it was too early for tourists. It was as if the old statues and monument had a viscosity that slowed their passage through time, as if their awakening came later than the streets. Wanting to be different from the others groaning awake on the benches, Richard pulled off his garish sweatshirt, quickly replacing his cap on his head. With luck, he looked like someone on his way to school, not a vagrant. But he wondered, as he saw the grime on the clothes of those who had slept here overnight, how long he could pass himself off as normal, how long before he became invisible like these others.
"I'm sorry," a turbaned worker was saying to someone, no, two people, "but you have to move on. Here, this'll get you breakfast."
"You're very kind, young man."
"Why don't you pop over to the station for a cuppa? They'll let you sit a while."
The vagrants he was addressing were a white-haired couple, their clothes frayed but not stained, fragile faces clean but not fresh. They were rosy-cheeked from sunlight, and they smiled at the man for his kindness. Richard could only stand and watch them walk away toward Charing Cross, where they might have an hour or two sitting on hard metal seats before someone moved them on. As they walked, the woman slipped her hand into the man's, and they continued on with the delicate, heartbreaking sweetness of aged love.
It's not supposed to be like this.
There are no comfortable places to sit – or lie down – in the external world of stone and concrete buildings. Indoors, there are few places of refuge for someone who has no money to pay. Already he was learning the hardness of the world. He felt like a swimmer far from shore, face dipped beneath the surface for longer and longer periods of time; soon enough he would be under and sinking.
"It's not right, is it?" It was the man in the turban, addressing him. "An old couple like that."
"Er… No, sir."
"Which is why you work hard in school, isn't it? My daughter is top of her class."
"Oh. Good."
The man's smile was disconcerting in its warmth, shaming Richard for not revealing his true nature: a runaway, and worse. I'm a criminal now. Inside that college, he'd handed over contraband – drugs or who knew what – and if he hadn't dodged the cameras as well as he'd intended, then the police would be hunting him down. Maybe he should try to get away from London. But nowhere was under tighter surveillance than the railways.
"Hallo, Richie-boy," said a familiar voice.
"Jayce!"
"Vodka Mary saw you head across Vauxhall Bridge. Thought I'd follow."
"Who's–? Never mind."
The expression on the turbaned man's face seemed to be melting downward. Richard's stomach lurched with shame.
"I get ya," said Jayce. "Come on."
They moved through well-dressed crowds, heading along the Strand. In shop doorways, the destitute sat awake or still slept, under shabby blankets or cardboard boxes. Soon they would have to move as the businesses opened. At least one form was so still that it could be dead; but no one was checking. Richard felt sick as he kept pace with Jayce, because he was like the rest, doing nothing to help. From some doorways came "Spare any change?" – directed to those who had money, not toward two homeless youths encroaching on choice territory. Hard looks sent a message even Richard could read, however confusing he found this new world.
In the shops, glowglass windows doubled as display screens, reporting the morning's headlines: WEST MIDLANDS FLASH FLOODS, 22 DEAD; VIOLENT CLASHES BETWEEN CHINESE CONGLOMERATES IN AFRICA; PM BILLY CHURCH GAINS 43% LEAD IN POLLS… He tuned it out, for they were meaningless signals, no more relevant to finding something to eat than the weather on Jupiter or the beating of pulsars beyond the galactic rim.
He missed his books.
"Sod this," said Jayce. "It's better south of the river."
Everywhere people were hurrying to work. What did people actually do all day in offices? What did Father do? He was on the boards of companies, but for the first time Richard realised he had no idea what that meant.
"Is it always like this?"
Jayce might have shrugged, but Richard's attention shifted to the other side of the street, a couple with two children, well-dressed and laughing as they paused before the Apollo Theatre, pointing at the animated poster over the doors. Sourness rotated in his stomach. He watched as the parents hugged their kids, continuing their saunter down the Strand.
"Fuckin' plod's all over the place." Jayce nodded toward three police officers further down the street, and another trio beyond. "See what I mean?"
Before
he became a criminal, Richard had thought of police as reassuring. Now he wanted to break into a run, but that would catch their attention.
"Can we get out of here?"
"Down this way."
Old steps sloped between two centuries-old buildings. At the bottom, Jayce turned left and Richard followed, continuing toward Waterloo Bridge. They climbed up to bridge level, made the long walk across – an ache throbbed in the back of Richard's legs – and descended an underpass to a round area below ground level, open to the sky, containing the black, shattered cylinder of the Imax Ruin. In the ramps and underpasses all around, Cardboard City was a packed confusion of makeshift shelters, grime-caked faces, tattered clothes, and a pervasive, heavy sourness that entered the nose and lungs and would not leave.
"'S crowded 'ere." Jayce had begun slurring. "Innit?"
Is he sick?
Or perhaps it was something to do with the green powder he'd taken last night. Whatever happened, Richard knew he had to steer clear of that stuff. Was there something he should do to help Jayce? The thought made his arms tremble, helplessness spreading inside him. And then Jayce was gone. Rubbing his eyes, Richard wove his gaze among the shabby figures, trying to spot… There. Jayce was wobbling his way through another underpass tunnel. What else could Richard do but follow? Among the fragrant stench of the lost, he made his way as best he could, only catching up Jayce when they were above ground, heading for the South Bank where the buildings shone and clean air blew off the Thames, the turbine vanes circling, and everything in its place.
Around the pillars and blocky sculptures, in the profusion of concrete architecture – Festival Hall, ramps, and walkways – were brightly-dressed figures who took Richard's breath away. Despite the early hour, they ran and vaulted over stairwells, rolled across concrete outdoor tables, threw themselves cartwheeling from walls, hit flagstones with a shoulder roll and came to their feet. Some used slideshoes, while others with boots and gauntlets spidered up buildings and took urban gymnastics to a level Richard had never seen.
"Who are they, Jayce?"
"Huh? Spidermen. Gekrunners."
"Will they talk to us?"
"Dunno, man. Tired."
"Jayce?"
But Jayce was sliding to the ground. He curled up sideways on the paving stones, shivered in hot sunlight, and fell into sleep.
What can I do?
He was too heavy to carry. Should he go to hospital? There were few pedestrians here – not so many offices for the commuters to rush to – and the whatsits, the gekrunners, were intent on their own thing. But a trio of police officers, bulky in their body armour, was heading this way. Trembling, Richard shook his head as if in disgust at the sight of Jayce, then walked on, head down, as if he had places to go, classes to attend. The more he realised this was a dream, the slower his paces became; and then there was a tap on his shoulder, and his bladder almost let go.
"You're his friend?" It was a girl's voice. "Jayce's friend?"
She was thin, about his height, wearing a helmet, gauntlets, and boots. Her sweatshirt flickered between two messages – Born to Jump and Head over Heels – beneath a moving graphic, a cartwheeling silhouette.
"Uh, yeah."
"You look straight. I'm Opal."
She held out her hand like an adult. It took Richard a moment to react.
"R-Richie."
The gauntlet, as he shook her hand, felt tough.
"You ain't been on the streets long."
"No." There was a crack of sound overhead. "Bloody hell."
A young man with dreadlocks clung spiderlike to sheer concrete, after a spectacular spinning leap from a table. He grinned at Opal and Richard, then twisted off and dropped, shoulder-rolling as he hit the ground, coming up into a skating motion, sliding away as if the flagstones were slick as ice.
"That's Kyle, and he's nuts. Good, though."
It was impossible to look away as Kyle vaulted over a stone plinth, cartwheeled, then skated onward.
"How does he do that?"
"Practice every day and you'll find out."
"But–" He stared up at the concrete wall. "I don't see how it's possible."
"Oh, that. Watch, and don't move a muscle." Opal curled the middle and ring fingers of her right hand, then opened them. "Totally still, now. Don't want to tear your skin."
She placed the palms of both gauntleted hands on his shoulders, then raised her arms a little. The fabric of Richard's shirt pulled upward. Then she crimped her fingers and the shirt dropped free.
"Gekkomere strips." She turned over her hand. "See? Sticks like magic."
"Fractal microtendrils." Richard peered at the strips. "Tap into the van der Waals forces between the molecules, the covalent bonds."
Opal looked at him.
"You so gotta talk to Brian. He's a right tech-head, too."
"Brian?" Then Richard remembered Jayce. "Oh, shit."
Looking back, he saw that the officers had hauled a wobbling Jayce to his feet.
"Let's hope they'll take him in this time," said Opal.
"You want them to arrest Jayce?"
"Stick him in a cell, inject him with anti-whatsit to clear his veins? Too right. It zaps the cravings for days. Give him another chance to go cold turkey."
Two of the officers, hands in Jayce's armpits, pretty much carried him along as they walked. The other officer was scanning everyone in sight. Richard turned away, feeling as if he were about to cry.
"Hey, what is it?"
"I just… don't know what to do. Where to go."
"Why don't you come with us?"
"Who's 'us'?"
"We are the Vauxhall Spidermen." Opal grinned. "Except I'm more Spidergirl myself."
Richard's eyes were blurring. He gave one sob, then caught himself. "Sorry."
"Come on. This way."
Technically the Spidermen lived in a squat, or a sequence of squats joined together. The street was part-derelict, but the local council had refurbished some of the houses: outer walls coated with cheap ceramic, rooftops shining with photoplastic. The gekrunners had possession of houses that were on the council's to-do list – or according to Opal, the won't-ever-get-aroundto list. The interiors were plain-painted, scraped back to brick in some places, decorated with movie posters looping through five-second clips. Several showed gekrunners performing daredevil acrobatics. Through the rear windows, Richard could see rows of photobulbs, soaking up sunlight. Inside, he counted twenty-eight different people before he gave up keeping track. Most were thin, some with lean muscle. Was everyone a gekrunner?
Laughter sounded from upstairs.
"Do all these people live here?" Richard looked at the varicoloured cushions scattered around the floor. "I mean, here or the other houses?"
Opal was about to answer, but a male voice forestalled her.
"Most do." The speaker was tall and white. "Me, I sleep over the shop most times."
"This is Brian," said Opal. "And this is Richie."
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Richie's a tech head. Richie, tell Brian about the Van Vols. You know."
"Say what?"
"In the gloves. Tell him."
"Uh…" Richard shook his head. "She means gekkomere tapping into van der Waals forces."
"Cool. You've got it."
"But Kyle's skating, how does that work?"
Brian gestured. "Show him your boot soles, Opal."
"OK." She put on hand on Richard's shoulder for balance, then raised one foot. "See?"
"Hyperglace gel strips." Brian pointed. "Like the gekkomere, flips between two modes. Just apply a tiny potential."
"And they're frictionless?"
"Coefficient damn near close to zero."
"At ambient temperature?"
"Unless the weather is–"
"You two." Opal lowered her foot, releasing Richard's shoulder. "Tech heads."
The absence of her hand felt… strange. Warm and strange.
"You
hack code?" asked Brian. "Course you do. If you want to work, come over to the shop in the morning."
"Er…" Richard looked at Opal. "Work?"
"We aren't losers." Brian nodded toward the seated people. "Apart from maybe Kenny over there. He's a doctoral student at King's, and a total waste of space."
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